Valetine's Day
by Fyrie
Summary: A series of small ficlets: Valentine's day stories for many of my roleplay characters, crossing between a dozen fandoms.
1. Ardeth Bey: The Mummy

Even in the depths of star-struck night, Cairo was not silent. Travellers came and went, caravans of market-tradesmen entering the streets and weaving their paths to the souk, bearing spices and livestock.

With them, a man all in black walked as unnoticed as a shadow. Clad in the garb of the Tuareg, he kept from the main streets, drawing only the bravest of wary glances as he strode onwards.

In the heavy folds of his clothing, he appeared to be carrying something, cradling it as if it were precious, though it was long, shapeless and unrecognisable. The sight of the heavy, curved sword at his hip and the rifle slung casually against his back, however, were enough to dissuade any pickpocket who might consider liberating the parcel from him.

Onwards he walked, until he came to the area that was spoken of as the district of infidels, where many of the tourists and visitors from distant lands would foolishly gather in overpriced hotels and lodgings to try and eke out prizes from the dusty motherland of Egypt.

Without hesitation, he strode into one of the more humble and quiet buildings, taking the steps two at a time. Unsurprisingly, the door he had approached was locked, but no mere panel of wood could prevent him from his aim.

Despite everything that had happened, he knew the occupants always slept with the windows overlooking the balcony open.

Shortly before dawn, the call of the Muezzin rang from the minarets across the city, rousing drowsy tourists where they slept, unfamiliar with the ringing cry, summoning the faithful to prayer.

As the buttery light of dawn poured over the Nile city, it glanced through the open window of the room in the small hotel and alighted on the table.

On the polished wooden surface, lying on a swathe of black cloth was a brief salutation on a scrap of paper, laid over the barrel of a Pattern 1871/84 Martini-Henry Rifle, rare and reputed, even years after common use, to be the finest single shot rifle ever produced.

Lovingly tended, the weapon gleamed in the morning light, a worthy gift for a loyal friend.

And outside, a silent shadow dropped from a ledge on the wall, disappearing into the coming day.


	2. Celebrian: Lord of the Rings

The last homely house was at peace. It seemed that the warm weather had drawn a comfortably soporific haze over the inhabitants, only the birdsong, the ripple of the river and the whisper of the wind breaking the stillness.

In the house of the Lord Elrond, only one creature seemed to be astir. The Lady Celebrian was preparing a bath for herself, letting the servants rest and indulging in the cooler water she had collected with her own fair hands.

Resting delicately on the lip of the elegant bath, her long sleeves gathered in one hand, she trailed her fingers through the cool water, colourful rainbows playing across the trails of scented oils that she had added.

Through the trellised roof of the chamber, light played between the trees above, flickering and dancing across her ivory skin. Shimmering flecks of sunlight darted and shimmered on the ripples and eddies that her fingertips roused in the water.

Tilting her head slightly, she let a smile tug at her lips. The doorway between her chambers and the bathing chamber lay partially open, left innocently ajar as she had carried the pitchers of cool water in, her hands occupied by the weight.

Satisfied that all was as she had planned, she rose, letting the sleeves of her robe tumble down, heavy sheets of rough golden silk. Elegant, pale hands moved to the delicate pins that held her robe closed and with careful deliberation, she removed each one, placing it upon the low dresser beside the bath.

Her expression remained innocent, though she knew she heard the faintest whisper of a sigh as her robe started to gape, allowing a tantalising glimpse of the flesh beneath.

Turning just slightly, her right side to the door, she lifted her arms to pin her long hair up. Her sleeves slipped slowly, dragging down her forearms, as she arranged the golden waves, each carefully spent moment allowing a little more of her white skin to show.

Satisfied, she drew her hands down, fingertips curling against the edge of the robe, brushing over her collarbones and slowly, surely, drawing the folds of the robe apart, baring throat, then shoulders and - with the slightest of shrugs - her upper arms.

Unmistakeable, a second sigh reached her ears and she feigned hesitation, drawing the halves of the robe closed over her breasts, eyes wide as a startled doe's.

Only stillness followed, but there was a tension in the air that made her skin tingle with pleasure.

Turning fully from the open door, she let the robe slip further still, the sensuous valley of her spine bared to the dappling kiss of the filtered sunlight. Parting her hands, as if spreading a cloth out before her, the robe shifted, then crumpled into a puddle of heavy fabric around her slim ankles.

With a coy glance back at the open doorway, she stepped into the bath, gasping at the chill as the water rose over calves, knees, thighs, teasing around her sex with its fluid kiss, hips, waist...

As soft ripples lapped greedily at her breasts, she turned to look to the doorway, tracing one hand along the cool marble that edged the bath, her smile sensuous, "Will you not join me, Elrond?"


	3. Evie Carnahan: The Mummy

The sandstorm had risen out of nowhere on the final day of their dig, sweeping towards them with all the savage ferocity of a tidal wave, blotting out the sunlight as the mass roared in.

Evie hadn't noticed it, engrossed by a fascinating engraving at the foot of a pillar, but broad hands had scooped her up and all at once, she was bouncing uncomfortably along, flung over Rick's shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Rick!" Her vehement protests had fallen silent when she followed the backward jerk of his thumb and saw the wave sweeping in towards them. "Oh my God..."

"Yeah, thought so too," the voice drifted up from the level of her backside a moment before he dived into the gaping opening of the ancient tomb they had been digging nearby. They tumbled, tangled together, down the shallow passage, as the bellowing cloud of dust crashed overhead.

Landing in a sprawling heap, O'Connell's body half-shielding hers as stinging sand lashed around them, Evie pressed her face against his shoulder. it was still pressed there a few moments later when she became pointedly aware that the sand was no longer blowing and that Rick was laughing and still lying far too pleasantly over her.

With an indignant swat, she wriggled out from underneath him and peered up at him in the dim light of the tomb. "I suppose you did that deliberately, Mister O'Connell," she said sternly.

Sitting up, Rick gave her the devilish grin that always made her tingle down to her toes. "Well, I thought summoning a sandstorm, just so I could jump on you was as good an idea as any," he said cheerfully.

_Honestly_, Evie thought, _the man was utterly incorrigible_.

Still, she at up and leaned closer to him. "You could have just asked, you know," she said, with a small smile.

He blinked at her. "Huh?"

"Well," Evie smiled again, more shyly this time. "It _is_ Valentine's day."

And, covered in sand and dirt and nursing two scraped knees, she kissed him firmly on the mouth.


	4. Jack Sparrow: PotC

"I really am sorry about this, mate."

His wrists bound in front of him and his hat stolen by a glowering woman, James glared at the pirate as he was pushed unceremoniously into one of the chairs at his own table.

"I expect you could claim quite a generous ransom on me," he said, kicking out at another pirate, who tried to claim his buckled shoes.

"Oi! Scribbs! Get back on deck!" To Norrington's surprise, the rotten-toothed pirate ambled off, his expression indicating that he'd be back and he'd have the shoes later. "S'a nice idea, Commodore, but blackmail? Ransom?" Sparrow made a face. "Nah. We're pirates, not kidnappers."

"What, then? You'll release me?" Norrington laughed cynically as he said it.

"Well... that was the idea," Sparrow shrugged. "Just wanted this little tugboat."

"Tugboat? One of the largest ships in the Naval fleet hardly classes as a _tugboat_, Mister Sparrow."

The pirate grinned, displaying an array of golden and yellowed teeth. "Yeah, but it's not her old boat, so she'll insult it anyway," he said. "She's like that."

"She?"

Kicking his boots up to rest on the table, the pirate's eyes glinted. "Aye," he said. "I'd never hear the end of it, if I didn't replace her boat."

Norrington's lips compressed together for a moment, his nostrils flaring angrily, but he couldn't help but ask, "Who is this _she_ to whom you are _giving_ one of our best ships?"

The pirate's brows lifted, as if he couldn't quite understand such a question. "Ana," he replied, hands splaying in a lazy shrug.

Norrington stared at him. "That hellcat?" he exclaimed, horrified. "The one who stole my hat?"

"That's the one," Sparrow said, grinning. "No getting it back from her, I'm telling you. 'Specially not when I picked it out for her. She likes her presents, does Ana."

Slumping a little in the seat, Norrington just groaned.


	5. River: Firefly

Carefully pulling the tube of cables out of the way, River scooted the floor panel aside and stuck her head and shoulders into the storage compartment. Dangling over the humming belly of the ship, murmuring to herself, she reached a slim hand between two moving parts.

"River!"

Wriggling back out, River beamed up at Kaylee. "I found it," she said happily.

"But you shouldn't go down there!" Kaylee admonished. "You coulda got yourself hurt."

"But I didn't," River replied, then held up what looked like a limp, sickly weed. "I had to get Simon a present," she explained. "I missed his birthday."

Kaylee looked at the plant, then River's beaming expression. "Uh, sweetie..."

"You're meant to give flowers to your sweethearts, significant other, lover," River seemed to be reading from a book only she could see. "Flowers and chocolates. Got a flower, but don't have a sweetheart." She reached out and pressed the weed into Kaylee's hand. "Simon'll like it."

"But Simon and me... we aren't... we haven't..." She tried to give the weed back, but River shook her head.

"Simon's silly," she said flatly. "You want to have a sweetheart and he does too and he likes you and if you make romantic gestures, the ratio of pheromones will rise and you'll get happy."

"Sweetie, I don't..."

"Simon!" Dodging around Kaylee, River raced for the medical wing. "Kaylee's trying to make me give you her present!"

"River!"


	6. Faramir: LotR and Caras Fain RPG

A year had passed since their marriage and less than four months since Eowyn had given birth to the child not of Faramir's line, yet as he sat by the bed each morning, watching her sleep, often with the infant tucked in beside her, he could not help but wonder how he could love her more with each passing day.

And though he would not admit it, he was captivated by the half-Elven child she had borne. Though there was much of his Sire in him, the baby was still his mother's son and Faramir found himself loving every pale hair on the downy little head.

Rising from his chair, he slipped out of the bedroom, leaving mother and son warmly tucked beneath the blankets, and quickly went to one of his chests, opening it and withdrawing a cloth-wrapped bundle.

Taking it to the table in the middle of the room, he opened it carefully, trying his utmost not to make a sound, as the belt unravelled and the buckle clanked on the layer of cloth he had unfolded.

It was probably an entirely sentimental gesture he knew, as Eowyn still held great affection for the armour and blade she had carried into battle only a few years earlier, but he had longed for something to give her that she might like.

Unlike every other woman he had met, he knew jewellery and gowns were trite gestures, indicators that though he admired her and wished her to be beautiful, they were not signs that he knew her.

So, several weeks before their anniversary, he had quietly approached the blacksmith who tended to all of the Royal armour and weaponry. Yesterday, the bundle had arrived discreetly and now, before Eowyn woke, he took a chance to examine the work done for him.

The sword was lighter than most Gondorian blades, yet still strong and heavy enough to serve well in a battle, more a cavalry sword than infantry. The grip was broad, the decoration of the pommel a combination of Rohir and Gondorian decoration.

Even the sheath was clearly the work of a Master, the tip capped with silver and faint patterns of running horses and Gondorian stars were embossed the length of the dark leather.

Sheathing the blade, Faramir carefully re-wrapped it, placing it on the table where Eowyn would find it, then made for the door and the first of the Counsel meetings that day, content in the knowledge that even if she never used the blade, the sword was a gift she would - even if just a little - appreciate.


	7. Spike: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

"C'mon, Peaches, isn't a proper date if you don't tell me about yourself."

"This has been going on long enough, Spike."

The blond vampire kicked back his seat and swung his feet up onto the table, waving the waiter away. "Nah," he said, grinning lazily at one of the wall hangings. "It's gone on long enough when I say it has."

Across the table Angel glowered at him. "You don't even like me, Spike. Why go to all this trouble?"

"D'you think I wouldn't miss your protruding forehead on a day like today?" Amused blue eyes glanced at him. "It's Valentine's day, you wanker. Only the saddest of the sad don't have dates. I thought I'd be nice and save you the embarrassment."

"Couldn't find anyone else who would go with you?" Angel's expression said everything.

"Why find some dumb tart to eat, when I can have a great night harassing you?" the blond inquired, eyes dancing. "C'mon, you great poofter. Tell me that this hasn't been fun!"

"Dinner and a movie, in your inimitable style. I should be thrilled," Angel muttered.

Bringing his feet back down to the floor with a crash, Spike grinned. There wasn't a word of protest from the other diners. "I like to think so," he said. "So, you get to pick the film. How about it?"

"Will you tell me?"

"Only if you behave, Peaches. If you value your girl that much, I think you should be able to suffer one teensy-weensy little date with yours truly."

"Spike," Angel leaned across the table. "If you even try something like this again, I'll break both your legs and chain you to a post on the beach as the sun rises. And I'll watch from the shade. With popcorn."

Spike frowned. "Well, you just had to go and ruin the mood, didn't you?" he grumbled.

"So you'll tell me and this'll all be over?"

Blue eyes narrowed slightly. "After you just lovingly told me you care enough to watch me burn? I don't think so," His smile returned, more wicked than ever. "So, Peaches, which film is it? Or shall I just eat the rest of the staff here?"

Angel sighed. "Fine. I'll go and see Underworld with you."


	8. Vicious Cowboy Bebop

A burst of gunfire from an upper window pinpointed the assassin.

Sprinting across the alleyway, guns blazing in both hands, Vicious dived behind the shelter of a dumpster, fresh round gripped between his teeth. Blood was streaking his cheek as he reloaded.

"You should move faster," Spike called from two dumpsters further along.

"Did it in slow-motion so you could see how it was done," Vicious yelled back, leaning out from his shelter to fire up at the window.

Spike rose like a demon from the ground to fire at the same window, then ducked back down as Vicious did. Slamming another clip into his gun, Vicious looked up with a curse as a fresh round of gunfire rattled from the window.

"You know what I hate?"

Spike peered around the edge of the dumpster. "People who are too fucking chicken to show their faces?"

"You got it," Vicious reached into his pocket. "Hey, Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"Catch!"

The dark-haired man looked up, reaching out in time to snatch the grenade out of the air, only to swear aloud and lob it up towards the window.

It bounced, teetering on the edge of the sill, then fell into the building.

"You fucking ass!" Spike yelled, pulling his coat over his head a split-second before the rest of the windows on the level of the building blasted out a mushrooming swell of flame.

Dusting himself down, as debris continued to rain around them, Vicious got to his feet. "What are you pissing your pants about now, Spike?"

"You could have said the fucking pin was out!"

Laughing, Vicious wiped the blood off his cheek. "Yeah, but what's the fun of that?" he asked. A rueful grin crossed Spike's face. Vicious nodded across the street. "We got a bar waiting for us."

"Not your girl? It _is_ Valentine's Day, Romeo."

Vicious glanced at him. "You want me to shoot you, don't you?" he said, half-smiling. "Come on, Spike. You're buying."


End file.
